72 Hours: Savage King
by Anthony Marston
Summary: In the worst place on Earth, a hero rises and must bring his people to freedom. The second one-shot story from the 72 Hours Universe.


**Late May, 2006**

**Bunazca, Arizona**

The Council of the Five Tribes met in a shallow canyon northeast of the town of Bunazca proper. It was the perfect place; far enough from the town to avoid their scavenging parties, but close enough to one of the entrance tunnels that they could still get some fresh meat if the government decided to send any their way. Usually they sent in pigs and coyotes, but if it was a good day there'd be new prisoners. Although the tribes rarely worked as one, on new prisoner day they would often coordinate their hunters as one to capture as many as possible. New prisoners meant a lot of meat, and meat wasn't exactly easy to come by under the scorching desert sun. Cactus, roots and other odds and ends they could vulture from the town proper, sure. Occasionally even vultures and other desert birds would foolishly fly into the territory and land. They wouldn't last long. The rest of the time your only constant meat supply would be desert rats, snakes, scorpions and tarantulas. Though not very appetizing to most, they would do if need be.

The hunters had not come back. There were some among the tribes in the canyon who were nervous at this, rocking back and forth or hooting and hissing to one another in their own primitive language. They were dirty, most were missing teeth and hunched over due to poor nutrition. Almost all had darkened, horrifically weathered skin from the constant dry wind and blazing sun. Their clothing was crude, most wearing the furs, skins and feathers of the desert animals. A few who were skilled in tanning wore the skins of new prisoners, looking every bit like leather under the sun (the truly prestigious tribe members wore the skins of those who had tattoos when they were alive). You could always tell the newer members of the tribes, for they almost always wore the tattered clothing they had when they came into The Bun. One girl still wore the remains of what had once been a nice sundress, while another young boy stretched the remains of a Benny the Bunny hoodie that he had outgrown two years back. Those who still remembered the real world tried to cling to it no matter how savage they may have gotten, while those who had been there the longest knew only the world around them. The oldest among them was 22, the youngest who had not been born in The Bun was just past 8.

The canyon itself was tiered, allowing for the lesser members to sit high on its face without any real chance of falling. Parachutes they had stolen from the town were used as an ad hoc ceiling to the canyon, allowing something of a respite from the sun in the middle of the day. The five tribal leaders sat in a circle at the bottom, waiting as they had for the past days for their hunters to come back. It was not a situation that many of them liked, there were grudges among the tribes, and it was usually the leaders who had met in the past to solve problems that had gone on between their groups. But now they banded together as one against an enemy. This enemy was not from town, no, they were from the outside. They were more savage than any within on their first day, and they seemed to relish in the hunt more than those who made their living that way within The Bun. They had preyed on the tribes without reason, their bodies uneaten but only left mutilated in the form of a Bunazcan threat. The leaders of the Fire Rock Tribe had sent their best hunters to deal with the monster's threat, only to have seen them one at a time been killed and mutilated by the monster's pack.

That the beast made its own pack was a surprise. Most raiders lived on their own, preying on the tribes, townies and newcomers rather evenly. This one though, would not. The lone survivor of the attack had claimed that the beast taken on two raiders who had been cast out of their tribes as members of his pack. The three of them had been working in unison to eliminate the tribes, and they had been doing a pretty decent job of it at that. The Fire Rock Tribe had no more than seven members. The Great Bird Tribe, once the largest in the land, now only had ten. It was a desperate time, and it called for desperate measures.

Thankfully, the Council of the Five Tribes had a good king.

At twenty-two years of age (not that he truly had any idea how old he was having spent fourteen in The Bun), Thor was the most senior of the tribal leaders. Hailing from the Tyrannosaurus Tribe, he was a large, tightly muscled man with a thick beard growth and a commanding voice. After protecting his own from raiders and townies in the past, he was greatly respected among the tribes as a warrior and a leader. He had been the one who had successfully made peace between the tribes and convinced them to hide in the canyon, and he had been the one who had proposed the plan to eliminate the threat once and for all. It had been simple really; in the past they had relied upon force in their attempts to eradicate the monster's evil, but this time they would use stealth. With the ten greatest hunters and arrowmen of the five tribes working together as one, they would surround and destroy the monster and his pack from whatever cover they could find. It was a desperate plan, but he had every hope that it would work.

A scout came running down the canyon's floor, smiling and hooting as only a young one would.

"Hunter's back, hunter's back! Killed the Sharkface and his killers, killed the Sharkface and his killers!" the young girl shouted as she deftly jumped on top of a small boulder. The cheers that came from the collected tribe members were jubilant at first, as were those of the other tribe leaders. Though Thor wanted to join them in their jubilance, he knew to be cautious. There had been much hope in the past for success in killing the Sharkface and his pack, but it had always been dashed quickly. With any luck, it would be the case no more.

And then slowly, the remains of the hunting party arrived. Instead of a grand procession of conquering heroes, there walked in one bloodied boy with a limp. He was an unimpressive figure, barely fifteen years old, just over five and a half feet tall and very skinny. His face looked quite mad, with half of it terribly scarred from a fight years back and silver eyes that seemed almost inhuman. His long, scraggly hair stuck out from underneath a vintage black and yellow 'Star Wars' baseball cap, though like most in The Bun he could barely read the words. The tunic and robe made from an old parachute he normally wore to blend in with the desert sands were stained with fresh blood, as was the damaged pitchfork that he always had strapped to his left wrist. Though he looked half-mad from the experience and the walk through the desert, the smile of Broke Claw was one of pure triumph.

Unfortunately for him, Thor was not one willing to return it. Broke Claw was a coward. A member of the Fire Rock Tribe, he had been the only hunter to survive their attack on Sharkface and his pack, and he had done so by running. When the other hunters stayed and fought bravely, he had run away crying. That he volunteered to join the hunt to take on Sharkface was great, but there were few who wanted him around. That he was the only one to return seemed a great tragedy to all; there were better hunters they had lost who would make for greater heroes than he. All the same, there was protocol that needed to be followed.

"Broke Claw, you honor us with your presence. Bringing good news me hopes?" Thor asked with a malevolent smile as he stroked his war hammer. The greeting had been meant as sarcastic, and the chuckles and snickers among the crowd confirmed that they found it that way too. Broke Claw knelt before the Council, no hesitation despite all the watching eyes.

"Good news, yes," Broke Claw said with a dry voice, "give me water and I will here tell all you."

A runner from above threw a dried bladder to the boy, and he drank the water within gratefully. Wiping his lips as the liquid ran down the corners of his mouth, Broke Claw deftly tossed the bladder back to the boy above him.

"I here killed the Lightning, the Cactus Fist and the Sharkface," Broke Claw proclaimed. The reaction among the lesser tribe members seemed uproarious, with claps, cheers and hoots echoing throughout the canyon. There was also a fair amount of speculative rumbling, particularly amongst the members of his own tribe and the council. There were more than a few who simply could not believe the claim.

"What of the other hunters?" Bessy, leader of the Cracked Rib Tribe asked.

"Killed," Broke Claw responded simply.

"They died brave?" Bessy asked again.

"Yes they did, good fight, good hunt, but the Sharkface, the Lightning, the Cactus Fist, they got us quick first, killed them all," Broke Claw responded honestly. There were mournful cries from the friends and mates of the lost hunters that echoed through the canyon. Broke Claw did his best not to let their wails get to him, but it was hard. He knew exactly how they felt.

"How you kill them?" Thor asked harshly, "You're no good an arrowman, you only good with you claw, what makes you think we believe you?"

At this remark, Broke Claw broke into a slightly cocky smile. He knew how everyone perceived him, and the second hunt was as much to regain his own honor as it was for revenge.

"I bring proof," Broke Claw said as he motioned to the satchel under his bloodied robe, "I bring proof and a story. Wanna hear? Want I should tell?"

The thudding of feet in the tiered canyon and the chants of 'Tell us, tell us!' made Broke Claw smile even wider. Though the Council still looked to the boy hunter warily, most were willing to give the boy a chance.

Much as Thor would have wanted to simply refuse the boy his word, he was to much of a politician to leave it at that. Better to let the boy spin his tale and humiliate himself than simply leave the people to draw their own conclusions. If in fact Sharkface and his pack were dead (probably killed by the rest of the hunting party) and Broke Claw's story was silenced, he would be allowed to spread it on his own. Then he could gain popularity with the people from the ground up, become a folk hero. If there was one thing that Thor didn't need, it was the heroism to be taken away from where it really belonged: with the leadership.

"SHUT UP!" Thor roared to the cacophonous crowd. Yielding to their agreed-upon leader, the legions became quiet as they continued to watch the spectacle below unfolding. Seeing them silence, Thor continued, "Let the fool hunter tell his story for us all. Let us hear what you got, Broke Claw. Start from the start, tell us all so we don't miss nothin'."

Moving over to a nearby rock, Broke Claw set down his satchel. Though he would never admit it, what he needed to do made him nervous. Almost fearful even. He had never been the greatest of hunters because of his injury, but of those who had survived their crippling, he was among the best. As Thor accused, he wasn't a very good shot as an arrowman. In the accident that had claimed half his face he had also become partially blind in one eye, making him a terrible shooter. But up close, he was as ferocious a fighter as you were bound to find. He had been able to take down big buck new boys almost twice his size with one strike of his pitchfork claw, and had gained some respect from it. With his running he had lost all that respect, but with any luck he would be able to regain it. Closing his eyes, the boy focused on his story. It would sound mad, unbelievable even, but he would make sure that they would listen, and he would make sure that his honor would be returned.

"My name's Broke Claw of the Fire Rock Tribe," hooting from the gallery, "some you know me, some you don't. I hunt. I hunt not as good as some, but better than others. I bring you lots'a food, and you enjoy it. Don't go hungry or starving if I can help it."

Cheers, more hollering. Thor stifled it quickly with a loud, sharp bark. Broke Claw continued, "Keep my life simple and good. Spend days farming the snakes, spend nights with my mate. Don't spend nights with my mate no more though, not after the Sharkface comes."

Broke Claw did his best to hold back tears when thinking about her. Vulture was her name, though at one point in time it had been Jane (a name she'd only let him call her). Beautiful as it got out in The Bun, few scars, nice blonde hair that had yet to be bleached white from the sun. Good, strong hips that could have given them many healthy young one day. Even got taken once to compete on _Bunazca Barbie_, but since she got kicked out in the early rounds she was sent back in. Broke Claw had been fearful for her during that entire time, hoping that they would give her back. They had. The Sharkface hadn't. When his danger was made clear, Broke Claw and Vulture had been a part of the main hunting party sent to take him out. They had lasted longer than the rest, but she suffered a terrible stab to the belly that made her cry in great pain. Like a man possessed, Broke Claw scooped her up in his arms and ran back to camp. They had a healer, not a good one but one who might have been able to fix her. It was worth hoping for a miracle.

She never made it back to camp. While they were all calling him a coward and blaming him for the deaths of the other hunters, Broke Claw buried his mate in a hole as deep as he could dig. It could never be deep enough to make her memory go away forever, and that was a pain he was prepared to always carry with him. The remark seemed to get to those who had lost their friends and mates, and they gave sympathetic coos from above.

"So when best hunters get called, I stand up," Broke Claw said, "I stand up and I help because of him killed my mate. The Sharkface and his pack killed her, and I want to kill him too. Eye for f-f-fuckin' eye!"

More hooting and hollering at the swear, this time harder to quell than before. Broke Claw took strength from their seeming show of support.

"Takes a day of hunting, we find them. Camped out in a cone tent, fire going. Thinking them super, thinking them know better than we do about the land in The Bun," Broke Claw said, getting hisses from the crowd, "so we circle them. Watch them. Wait for night. But we wait too long. They sneak out in the dark, come around and attack. We spread too far, easier to get. Though dark I seen good fighting, hunters use their bows, blades, black weed, spears and atlatls. Good fighting, but no luck. Went in my own self, caught Lightning carving up one Cracked Rib hunter. Other two fighting somewhere else, so I could sneak slow. Brought spear, tried to stab 'em. Heard me, brought his spear up. Fought him hard. Knocked me on floor, spear not in my hands. He's yelling, running. Grab my spear, put the end on the ground. Lightning ran into it, ran through it. Didn't run no more."

Broke Claw reached into his satchel, pulling free a broken length of wood and carved obsidian. He tossed it in the middle of the Council's semi-circle, where Thor picked it up. The form was unique, a curved zig-zag shape that could not be mistaken for anything but the tip of Lightning's spear. He was a fearsome raider and would never have let the spear from his sights, that Broke Claw could produce his spear tip was proof enough. At first sight the weapon got gasps, but they quickly transformed into cheers and hoots (especially from Bessy for avenging her lost tribe member).

"Fine story, but that's only one," Thor said as he tossed the spear tip back to Broke Claw. The trophy was his, he would get to keep it. Reaching into his leather satchel, the boy then threw a severed and foul-smelling human foot in the midst of the Council. This gesture elicited some startled gasps from the crowd. The throwing of a severed foot in Bunazca was often considered one of the greatest insults, as those who ate the flesh of the feet were among the weakest of scavengers.

"Explain yourself!" Thor roared, gaining more gasps and a surprising amount of hisses from the assembled crowd.

"Count the toes!" Broke Claw shouted back over the din of the crowd. Taking the limb into his hand, Thor indeed counted the toes. Only four. Where there should have been a small toe was just smooth skin, no sign of severing. Birth defect. Only one person in The Bun had that kind of deformity (though a lot of orphans with problems like that had been sent there as a way of keeping them out of the gene pool), and he went by the name of Cactus Fist. Another of the tougher raiders who'd gained a violent reputation from the barbed wire gloves he wore when hunting, he had been a problem even before the influence of Sharkface had transformed him into a menace to all.

"They follow me after killing Lightning. I give them good run, make them follow chase. Nothing but my knife and claw, but faster than them. Know more about the hills and caves. Run to a cave, they catch up. Hide behind a big boulder, watch them split and hunt. They hunt good, but not too good. Sneak-hunt behind the Cactus Fist."

He thrust his clawed hand out for dramatic purposes, "Claw in his back, screamed like a sow. Cut his throat, hot blood all over me, he goes down like a new fresh meat."

More cheers, and quite a bit of laughter from the audience. Most of them knew the pleasure of watching a new prisoner go down, and it was always a fun sight. Crying, screaming, blood on the desert hardpan. The newer tribe members, those who had come into the desert and actually managed to survive and avoid the tribes' hunting missions, always found the early cannibalistic hunts appalling. After realizing how much food it brought to individual tribes however, they would not argue as much.

Thor was not pleased with the cheers that had begun to go Broke Claw's way, and once again he barked angrily at the crowd sitting in the canyon's tiers. This quieted some, but not all.

"The Sharkface hear-saw the Cactus Fist die. Got the foot, got to running. Into the hot sands, up the sand hills. The Sharkface too slow, too heavy, gets made slow by the sand. Shot an arrow, my leg hit. Hurt bad, fire up my side, hard to walk, but I live. Fires another arrow, misses me. Charge down the sand hill, he pulls out the ax. Hissing and yelling at me like he thinks like one of us. Fight close, fight hard. Swings his ax, not too fast. Stab my claw into him, deep."

Gasps from the crowd filled the air as Broke Claw proudly thrust his weapon skyward, "but he still not down. Keep pushing, blood everywhere, and he smiles. Smiles the Sharkface smile. Eyes roll back, he's dead. Cut up his face, take his ears for my own. Steal the pelts of our own he took. Bring this to honor the Council."

Reaching into his bag, the boy knelt down on one knee and presented them with a ragged square of skin cut from the monster's chest. It held a tattoo that read, "I Survived BR: West Virginia, and All I Got Was This Fucking Tattoo!" Though few could read all its contents, and the cut was ragged (even including one of Sharkface's nipples of all things), there were those who had seen Sharkface without a shirt and they loudly confirmed that the flesh was his. Cheers echoed up and down the canyon as it was finally confirmed that the Sharkface was dead.

"You done saved us all," Bent Knuckle, leader of the Fire Rock tribe said. Cheers rang up and down the canyon, and even Thor was having trouble holding back how impressed he was. Though he would have truly enjoyed all the adulation that was being thrust upon him any other time, there was something troubling in the hunt that he needed to bring to their attention.

"I hear the Sharkface and the Cactus Fist talking," Broke Claw shouted above the din, "talking 'bout their hunting! Saying-bragging that they get paid, doing what they doing 'cause townies paying! Paid to kill us all, end the tribe people problem forever!"

An uproar through the canyon, shouts of outrage and hisses from the crowd and the Council alike, with even Thor taking part in the arguments. Things were falling apart, but there was no way it could have been avoided. Broke Claw knew that it would come to this, with information like that it would have been hard to prevent it, but still... this kind of disorder did no good. It would make people do stupid things. Rash things. There was a way out of it, but he would have to play his cards right. A chant for 'WAR!' was echoing throughout the canyon, and Thor was doing nothing to try and prevent the thought. Talking amongst the council was fierce, and Broke Claw could tell that they were arguing very angrily. But being the largest and the loudest, Thor seemed to have gotten his way in the end as he raised his war hammer over his head and roared, "SHUT UP!"

Silence reigned within the canyon once more. Thor had a way of doing that. The Council leader ran a hand through his beard, scratching and looking to the masses assembled above him with intense eyes. Several of the Council members (especially Bessy and Bent Knuckle) did not seem to like what was coming, but it didn't seem to matter. They had all voted, and Thor's decision had been the tie-breaker.

"We go to war!" he shouted. This idea seemed to gain much support from the assembled tribe members, though there were certainly some who sounded skeptical. Perhaps only half of those collected were hooting and cheering with the rest, the others rumbling silently amongst themselves. They could war, there was no doubting that, but already they had lost too much. The fights with Sharkface and his pack took a terrible toll, and trying to take on the townies, some of whom actually had _guns_... it had every chance of being suicide.

"Can't do war!" Broke Claw shouted back.

"Can't do war?" Thor asked, angrily looking down upon the smaller boy as he angrily lifted his hammer again.

"No, war'd be bad. Don't have numbers. War'd kill us all. Can't do war!" Broke Claw shouted, gaining support from much of the grumbling half of the assembled tribes. Bent Knuckle and Bessy whistled in support as well, gaining another harsh look from Thor.

"We don't got numbers," Thor responded harshly with a bark that shut the tribes up, "but we got smarts! We know desert better than they. We got the weapons, good arrowmen, the black weed, the catapult! We can smash them out, bring them to us, kill them all! They want us dead, what you say we better do to live?"

Gathering up as much courage as he could under the circumstances, Broke Claw said levelly, "We follow The Crow!"

This time there was a unified uproar amongst the collected tribes. Thor shouted, "The Crow is a mad prophet, they know not what's best!"

"They know the way out! They not come with the new meat, they come from somewhere else! They come from somewhere else, and they say they can get us out! Get us out and free us!" Broke Claw shouted, causing the shouting in the canyon to shoot up to almost deafening levels. Many were still shouting for war, but many more started shouting 'FREE!' at the tops of their lungs in an effort to quash those who wanted to war. Thor looked down on Broke Claw in disgust. The Crow had been a figure of myth, a traveler shrouded in black who hid out in a cave and had somehow been able to avoid the raiders and tribes' wrath. They had made their way from camp to camp, carrying with them chocolate bars and offering them in exchange for some time. The Crow claimed that they had indeed snuck into Bunazca through means that those within the government did not know. They claimed that they could get past the fence without detection and bring many Bunazcan's away to safety. They claimed that they had made the offer in town and been forced away at gunpoint by Mayor Jack. The Crow claimed if the tribes could see reason, then they would be able to destroy those who imprisoned them, and then join with their wandering band of birds of prey to destroy the people who made a place like Bunazca possible.

"The Crow speaks lies!" Thor barked, jumping down from his seat and getting into Broke Claw's face. The younger boy was fearful of the larger man and his sledgehammer, but he held strong. Snarling in response, he broke out in a sharp laugh that regained the collected tribes' attention.

"Thor wants you dead, I want you live! We can get out, we can be free!" Broke Claw shouted.

"I want you live too, I want us free! Free from townies! The Crow speaks lies, they not know what's best, we, The Council know best, and I speak for the Council!" Thor shouted as he raised his hammer. The gesture seemed to quiet the assembled groups down, but it would not stop what had been put into motion. The Crow's words had already been in the minds of many since their arrival, but there had never before been any vocal show of support for their actions. With the endorsement Broke Claw, now a hero of the tribes, they could speculate freely as to what was best. It was getting bad, and Broke Claw knew it. Many wanted to support him, but would not because they still believed in Thor. Whatever neutral people existed would more than likely side with Thor, or at the very least side with their tribe leaders who would in turn side with Thor. To get them to do what was right would take something of a miracle.

And Broke Claw knew just how to pull it off.

"CHALLENGE!" he roared at the top of his lungs. The canyon fell into dead silence, almost as if Broke Claw had fired a gun into the air. Thor looked to the young, blood-drenched boy as if he had slapped him.

"You better be sure you want that," Thor threatened, threateningly raising the war hammer in front of him.

"Yes, I do," Broke Claw said, then raising his voice to a shout, "I CHALLENGE THOR FOR LEADING COUNCIL OF THE FIVE TRIBES!"

This remark brought another round of nearly-universal cheers, but with a fair amount of reservation held by some. While they all loved a good spectacle, with the losses they had taken of late, losing either Thor or Broke Claw would have been devastating to their group welfare.

Confident but shaken, Thor began circling the younger boy with his weapon held high. Though he had not been on the hunt often since becoming tribe leader, he was still capable of killing. None could wield the war hammer like he could, and Broke Claw was injured. It would be a quick fight.

For his part, Broke Claw too was fairly confident, if shaken. Thor may have been much larger and had a more devastating weapon, but he was swifter, and not nearly as old. While Thor could take a few good hits, Broke Claw would be able to deliver many quickly in a devastating fashion. He was a fighter, and with his pitchfork claw he had been able to kill two men stronger and more deadly than Thor.

Stripping free his satchel and robe and standing tall in only a simple, off-white and blood-stained tunic, Broke Claw bowed before Thor as honor dictated. Quickly and not as deeply, Thor followed suit. There was no way that he would allow the younger boy the full honor, but rules did need to be followed.

At least that was where the rules ended.

Like a man possessed, Thor ran toward the younger boy with a primal roar and swung his war hammer hard. It was not meant to kill Broke Claw, no, he knew the younger warrior would be able to dodge it easily. It did, however, get Broke Claw moving. The crowd above roared their approval, watching the two warriors circle one another and take the occasional jab. Each would make a small, quick attack, meant to test the other's defenses, see how they would respond. Occasionally Thor would bark harshly at Broke Claw in an effort of intimidation, but seeing the boy could not be scared he stopped quickly.

They circled around one another for nearly ten minutes, neither making a very serious attack. After that, the fight ended fairly quickly.

Thinking that Broke Claw was off guard, Thor charged him. Broke Claw swung his weapon out deftly, slicing the back of Thor's left hand. The leader howled out in pain, only for Broke Claw to gash the back of his right hand. The war hammer finally fell from his hands, and the uproarious crowd became deathly silent. Spinning around, Broke Claw raked his weapon across Thor's back, gashing three, foot-long lines of blood in the tribal leader's flesh. They weren't deep, but they did hurt badly. With his opponent injured, Broke Claw acted swiftly and kicked Thor's legs out from underneath him. The air filled with cheers (and some wails from the members of the Tyrannosaurus Tribe) as Broke Claw fell upon the downed leader, placing the tips of his pitchfork against Thor's neck.

"Eat his eyes!" a young boy shouted from above.

"Eat his tongue!" another cried.

"Kill him!" many more shouted. Broke Claw looked down into the eyes of the downed leader, a man who had once looked as if he could move the Earth with his own hands, now stricken and prepared for death. With one thrust, he could have killed Thor and won the leadership of the Council.

But that would have done no good. Enough warriors had already been lost in the fights with Sharkface's pack, and any more would only hurt them all already. As well, The Crow had wanted to free all of the tribes and raiders that they could gather, killing Thor might just alienate his own tribe.

Standing over the downed man, Broke Claw offered his free hand. Perplexed beyond all definition, Thor accepted it and stood up next to the young warrior. Seeing Broke Claw's mercy, some chose to hiss, while others began to cheer his name as if he were some outer-world sports hero.

"I won, you all saw!" he shouted to a resounding wall of cheers, "Thor too good to die. Good leader, we all still need him! We can leave, we can be free! Follow me, follow The Crow, we all leave together!"

While moments before they had all been ready for war, the unified tribes gathered together around their new hero as if he were one of the gods. As much as he did not like what had happened, Thor could only be thankful that the boy had spared his life, and as such would not act against him. If following The Crow in a mad plan of escape was what they were going to do, so be it. It might kill them, but it just might actually find them a way to freedom.

And so they followed Broke Claw.

Two days later, they were free.


End file.
